Where still a mortal monarch seemed to reign. Otho looked face to face on Charlemagne ! Sir Aubrey de Vere. THE HUNTING-HORN OF CHARLEMAGNE. AMONG other relics preserved in the Cathedral at Aix-la-Chapelle is the ivory hunting-horn of Charlemagne. It is massive and heavy, and the attempt of the guide to sound it (for the amusement of tourists and strangers) is singularly unsuccessful, the note produced being the most faint and lugubrious which it is possible to conceive. HOUND not the horn! SOUND A faithful sharer of its master's sleep: Through the wild forest's rustling boughs it went, And faintly answered from the hills beyond: Pause! the free winds that joyous blast have borne : Dead is the hunter! silent be the horn! Sound not the horn! Bethink thee of the day When to the chase an emperor led the way; In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime, Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time, Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast, Glad, active, vigorous, who is now at rest: How he gazed round him with his eagle eye, Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky, Grasped the long spear, and curbed the panting steed (Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong speed), At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn, And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn! Ah! let no touch the ivory tube profane Or, following to his palace, dream we now A woman's form, the trusted and the true : The strong to suffer, though so weak to dare, And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile; own! " She loves, and she is loved, her gift is worn, 'Tis fancy, all! And yet - lay down the horn! Love, life, what are ye?-since to love and live Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome guest, A prisoned portion of God's glorious day, - The Hon. Mrs. Norton. THE CONVERSION OF WITEKIND. Aom the red battle-field T midnight, alone, Stands Witekind, Chief of the Saxon Host Alas for him! the day has been lost; All dimmed show his axe and shield, And himself stands there like a man of stone ! O, woe for thee, Prince Witekind! Around him lie piled, His warriors, covered with wounds and blood, And countenance fierce and dark Of the Saxon, when dead, are those of a child! Were the warriors of noble Witekind! But Witekind's heart It burns like fire, "O Karl!" he cries, "the Gods I adore Will yet avenge me in streams of gore. Thou shalt not baffle their ire, Low, low shalt thou lie before we part! Bow, now, thou By Irmia shalt, before Prince Witekind!" In a pilgrim's garb, Which hides his mail, He wends his way by the Weser's flood, He speeds to his goal, The brave, the untamed, the headlong Witekind! He glides as a ghost through the throngéd street. Thy blessed Emperor Karl? I bear him weighty tidings to-day!" Thus asked of a monk The valorous Pagan warrior, Witekind. The monk replied,· "All Europe appears Too narrow to yield the great Karl a home! For there, in the morning tide He hearkens the holy Mass with tears!" Little weeted the monk he had parted with Witekind. Few minutes more And the Pagan Chief |